


florian the fool

by alltheworldsinmyhead



Series: and you know for me it's always you [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And angst, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff, Growing Old Together, Parenthood, Pregnancy, gendry mooning over his m'lady cause i live for this shit, my babies being soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 13:44:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20583473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheworldsinmyhead/pseuds/alltheworldsinmyhead
Summary: Time flies and it does not wait for anyone. But theirs are years well-lived, so Gendry supposes it's all right, in the end // Gendry gets to watch his Arya grow old with him. It feels like a blessing.





	florian the fool

**Author's Note:**

> Gendry's POV to the white fawn, but I suppose it can be read separately - all you need to know is that Gendry and Arya stayed together with the Brotherhood instead of separating and then decided to Fuck Politics and got married. 
> 
> Inspired by Taylor Swift's Daylight which, let's be honest, is totally a gendrya song. I highly recommend listening to it and Keaton Henson's Earnestly Yours if you want to put yourself in my headspace while reading (also, both of those songs are simply lovely). Please, excuse any of my possible errors and I truly hope you'll enjoy this fic, cause I sure as hell enjoyed writing it.

> _Clearing the air, I breathed in the smoke_
> 
> _Maybe you ran with the wolves and refused to settle down_
> 
> _Maybe I've stormed out of every single room in this town_
> 
> _Threw out our cloaks and our daggers because it's morning now_
> 
> _It's brighter now_
> 
> _I once believed love would be burnin' red_
> 
> _But it's golden_
> 
> _Like daylight_
> 
> _\- D_aylight, Taylor Swift
> 
> * * *

Sometimes, when it’s raining outside and the kids are deep asleep, curled on top of one another like a litter of pups, Gendry takes Arya’s hand and they dance slowly in the middle of the room, swaddled in darkness. Nothing fancy – mostly, they just sway side-to-side, her cheek leaning on his chest and his chin resting on the top of her head.

It’s very quiet between them.

This always reminds him of kneeling on the cold, soft mud in front her, underneath Raventree, when they were told to ask gods to bless their marriage. He did not believe in gods then and he does not believe in them now; Old or New or Red, they don’t seem to listen to mortals’ wishes at all. But despite that, he bowed his head dutifully and did ask for one thing and one thing only-

_Let me love this woman right, please. Just let me love her like she is supposed to be loved._

It is a prayer, but it’s also more than that; it is a promise.

Arya, with her hair chopped short and desperate eyes, trying to convince him she is a boy.

Arya, bow in her hands, swift and nimble on her feet, running through the woods like a fawn.

Arya in yellow silks and with flowers on her head, so young and so fucking gorgeous it hurt. Arya, saying she is his, claiming him as hers. 

Arya hovering above him, her eyes shining in the dark.

Arya on her back, face all red, hair stuck to her forehead and crying in pain, her hand clasping his so hard that bruises form on his fingers.

Arya, ankle-deep in cold, cold river, holding Ben under his armpits; lowering him into the water and raising him up over and over again as he wiggles in her grip, giggling.

_Let me love her like she deserves to be loved. _

*

Jory only falls asleep when someone sings to him and it takes them way too much time to figure it out - probably, because none of them has any fucking idea what they’re even doing and so the thought of ever trying lullabies has somehow never occurred to either.

But one yet another sleepless night, Arya, more tired than sane really, lays their screaming, screeching baby on the bed between them and begins to rub comforting circles on his belly with her eyes closed as she opens her mouth.

_Six maids in a pool_

_They're of noble blood_

_One Fool, but great, on the shore_

_He'd seen that flower full of love_

_"She'll be in my garden" - he'd sworn_

And then there is a sudden, blissful silence except for Arya’s low, rough voice and the sound of crickets outside as Jory’s eyelids flutter and shut. Soon enough, he’s deep asleep, clutching Gendry’s index finger in one of his tiny fists.

They stay frozen, afraid to move, to even breathe, in case the baby will wake up, but it does not happen and Gendry slowly tears his gaze away from Jory, so relieved and overjoyed, about to just pull Arya against his chest and kiss her senseless-

But Arya looks down, still like a lake, tears rolling down her cheeks one by one.

‘’Arry.’’ – he whispers hopeless, at loss of what to do. His heart beats so loudly in his chest that he’s sure she must hear it.

‘’It was- it was Sansa’s favorite.’’ – she lets out with a shaky breath, hunching over and hiding her face in her hands. – ‘’Florian The Fool and Jonquil.’’

Slowly, so, so slowly, Gendry grabs her wrists and lowers her hands down and cups her face, wiping tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. She’s so skinny, so sad lately, worn to the bone. 

‘’It’s just so hard now.’’ – she admits quietly.

He’s about to say _I know, _but bites on his tongue before those words escape from his mouth. No, he doesn’t. He does not know much really. He leaves on the first light and comes home late, and Arya stays, day and night, hissing in pain every time she nurses and lulling crying Jory in her arms for hours, over and over again. The girl who wanted adventure and thrill, stuck in one place like a caged bird.

Staring into Arya’s weary, gleam-less gray eyes, Gendry really, truly hates himself for the first time in his life.

He does not know how to make it better. So, instead, he does the only thing that comes into his mind; he kisses her forehead and tells her that she can go to sleep and he will watch Jory. This night and all the other nights. And he will learn all the songs under the sun, if that’s what their baby wants. Behold, Gendry The Fool.

This earns him a smile. Small and barely-there.. but it’s a beginning.

*

In the morning light, she is a statue carved out of marble.

Sitting on the threshold, barefoot and with her hair loose, she looks so fragile. Bird-boned. If she was a metal, she would require goldsmith’s nimble fingers to form, not brute strength of a blacksmith.

And yet, she hears his footsteps, she turns around to look at him and moves a little to the left to make place for him. And, when he sits down, she rests her head on his shoulder as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do and he wraps his arm around her-

And yet, despite all, they just fit. They work. 

She places his hand on her swollen belly so he could feel their babe kicking underneath his fingers, _oh gods, _he never wants to move from this threshold ever again. He tries to imagine sitting here with another woman, sharing his life with another woman and it just leaves a foul taste in his mouth.

He is hers. Simple as that.

*

Duncan is so small in Gendry’s hands, barely bigger than a loaf of bread and looking so delicate. Born a moon too early, he came out of Arya’s womb pale and unmoving and Gendry has never been more afraid in his life than in those few seconds stretched into infinity, looking into Arya’s wide wild eyes and waiting for their second son to take his first breath and start to cry. He’s fine now, maybe still a bit too light, but that’s okay – Gendry can keep him safe and warm in his arms as long as it takes for his to gain strength on his own, as long as he needs it. Even if it’s forever. It doesn’t matter.

Jory is so curious about his baby brother that it’s almost comical. He peaks at Duncan napping on Arya’s breast and then gently, very gently, pats his chubby cheek.

‘’Soft.’’ – he grins up at Arya and she laughs.

‘’Yeah, babies are like that. All soft and nice. Do you want to give him a kiss?’’

Jory seems to be thinking about it for a while, a tiny wrinkle appearing between his brows from concentration. It smoothes down when he leans to press a peck on Duncan’s dark head.

‘’Love him.’’ – he babbles with a toothy smile and Gendry can swear that there actual tears in Arya’s eyes, no matter that she would deny it.

*

‘’Wish I could give ‘em a name.’’ – he says quietly, watching as older boys snore in unison, both of them holding each of Ollie’s tiny fists.

Arya reaches out above their sleeping children and puts her little hand on his cheek. Her eyes are shining in the darkness like twin stars and yes, indeed, Gendry wishes for a name other than Waters more than he has ever wished for anything, but that’s not the only thing he desires. He wishes for a featherbed for Arya; for her to be less tired; for her hands to remain soft. He can’t give her comfort the same way he can’t offer any of the three sons he has with a noble-born woman anything more than a hut on the hill, a few goats and a small workshop in the Maidenpool.

‘’They have a father who loves them, a father who they can be proud of. That’s more important than any name could ever be.’’

Gendry thinks it’s very lady-like of her to say so. But, after all, she gave up her name for him, so maybe he could trust her on this matter.

*

Sometimes he dreams of Arya in Winterfell; Arya all highborn in Northern furs, a silver crown on her dark hair and cheeks painted pink from frost. He dreams of wolves surrounding her, howling for her in the woods, bowing their heads for her when she passes through the pack of them as if she was their queen.

_Wolf dreams, _she tells him shortly one time when he wakes up in the morning to find her sitting in the bed still deep asleep and biting on her lip hard enough that it bleeds, her hands all scratched by her own nails. He doesn’t ask for more explanation. It’s scary enough, to think what she might have become, how high she might have risen had she not she chosen him.

*

Beric arrives one evening, seated on a fine black mare that makes boys gasp in awe and nervously elbow each other until Jory asks very politely – let it never be said that Gendry raises his son as wildlings, thank you very much – if they can maybe, just maybe, feed her an apple. As horse happily munches, absolutely not paying any attention to three little creatures combing her tail and patting her sides, Arya hoists baby Ben on her hip and talks with Beric outside as Gendry goes to fetch cheese and milk.

On his way back, he stops on the threshold and grins involuntarily. Gods, his wife is just so fucking pretty, more beautiful with every passing year. No one would call her a dirty boyish urchin now, with her long dark locks cascading down her back and a blush on her sweet face. She sways delicately, side-to-side, as the child in her arms dozes off, his head resting on her shoulder.

Gendry very briefly wonders if he could possibly persuade her to have yet another babe. A daughter this time, a little Arya, gifted with her mother’s effortless grace and devious gleam in grey eyes. From their sons, Ollie is the only one brown-headed and also the only one alike to Arya in any physical regard; Jory and Duncan are both copies of him, taller than they should be at their age and growing out of every pair of shoes more rapidly than Gendry can supply them.

‘’Your brother would take you. All of you.’’

Beric’s voice is like a cold shower, briefly, just before it turns into a cold fury brewing in Gendry’s gut.

‘’Why would I ever take my sons to Winterfell?’’

‘’They could have a future there.’’

Gendry doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. If Lord Beric All-Mighty Dondarrion wants to say that he cannot damn support for his own family, he can fucken say it to his face. But he remains inside the house, hidden in shadows and frozen in place. Listening.

Arya laughs, both softly and bitterly somehow.

‘’What kind of future? Bein’ treated as bastards, even though they’re not? Bein’ treated as baseborn and worse for that, even tho they don’t deserve it? ‘’

‘’Your brother has no heirs, he could use four healthy, strong boys. Do you want your ancestral seat in the hands of some other house? For Starks to die out?’’

Gendry’s fist clench. That’s a low blow and Beric bloody knows it, probably that’s why he does not look Arya in the eyes.

_He never let it go. He rode with smallfolk, wined and dined and shat with them, but he never forgave himself for letting highborn girl under his care to be defiled by a bastard blacksmith, knight or not._

_Nearly killed me when I refused to ride North with them, sulked through the wedding and acted all high and honorable, and now he tries to take a wife from her husband and children from their father. _

‘’Rickon married Shireen Baratheon; if Bran will die childless, Rick’s second son will hold Winterfell. If not, Sansa’s child will. Heard she has a boy now.’’

‘’It’s your sons’ right.’’ Beric’s voice turns sharp. ‘’Hope you know what you’re depriving them of.’’

There is silence ringing in Gendry’s ears for a moment. He inhales, deeply, and is just about to move, to bash Lightning Lord’s skull in, when-

‘’Oh, I know full well.”

_Ours is the fury. _For the first time, he thinks Arya would make a fine Lady Baratheon; there is so much anger radiating from her that he half-expects for the sky to part and send down thunderbolts.

‘’I deprive them of ever watching their father killed in a godsdamned game of thrones. No one will chop Gendry’s head off for a secret. No one will betray me and slit my throat. ‘’ she states, her voice unwavering. - ‘’If I die on them, it will be in childbirth. If Gendry does, it will be from the plague. These are honest deaths, the ones that don’t scar. Don’t teach me how to love my own children, Beric, or how to take care of them. I gave them the freedom to be who they want to be. And if I will ever bear a daughter, she will be freer than I ever was.’’

Guilt, heavy like a stone, punches him in the gut.

_All those years and I’m still underestimating you, love. _

Beric gifts them his black mare when he leaves the next morning, against their protests. Gendry wants to sell her – it’s suspicious for people like them to have a horse like that – but boys plead and plead for hours and Arya glances at the mare fondly, and Gendry is reminded how she used to ride faster than wind, hair unbound and no saddle needed. Freedom incarnate.

His wife calls the horse Wintersong.

Alysanne is born nine moons later.

*

Against his stupid, silent wishes, their children grow up quicker than a blink. He longs for bare feet and joyous shrieks, for mud fights and hurts that could be healed by kisses. What he gets now is to see them all go their own way and seven hells, it hurts so much.

Benjen is the first one to go, stolen away at just nine by Lord fucking Dayne, to squire for him and then to be knighted. And Gendry knows, somewhere in the more rational part of him, that this is a good thing, that Ben would be happy doing what he was so clearly made to do. Ned is an honorable man and he will take good care of the boy, and one day Ben will be a great knight. They would sing songs of him. Still, this knowledge does nothing to soothe his sorrows. Bloody Starfall is too far away to travel and, as he hugs Ben’s scrawny frame, the realization that it might be the last time he does that takes his breath away.

_I will never see him practicing with wooden swords in the woods again. I won’t see as he grows up. _

_Is there ever a bitter moment for a father, _he thinks, clutching Alysanne’s hand as she waves her brother goodbye. – _than when he gives his child away and they are not his anymore? _

The first night after his son’s departure, Arya weeps from dusk till dawn, clinging to him in desperation until exhaustion pulls her under. Next morning she’s calm and collected again, moving on as if nothing happened, but this is the first time that Gendry looks at his wife and thinks she’s getting older.

Jory’s next; always the responsible one, he quietly and slowly explains to them one afternoon how he will finish his apprenticeship soon and would like to stay in Maidenpool and marry his carpentry master’s youngest daughter. Gendry knows the girl – pretty lass named Joy, fox-like and with hair kissed by the fire. He had no idea that Jory fancies her thou, although it is possible he might be the only one oblivious, as Arya doesn’t even try to look surprised.

(_Stupid. – _she tells him in the evening, shaking her head. – _During the fair last year all he did was look at her, all moony, too afraid to ask her to dance. Didn’t you notice that?_

Well. He didn’t.

Arya sighs heavily, resting her head on her hand and glancing at him from underneath her lashes.

_Remind me why I married you?_

He leans down, resting his forehead against hers. His hand sneaks underneath her skirts to rest on her bare tight and he watches as grin blooms on her face.

_Don’t complain, m’lady.)_

Duncan doesn’t ever really leave, which Gendry cherishes. Even as a kid, Duncan loved coming over to forge the most, begged Gendry to teach him blacksmithing ever since he was maybe six. As a man grown, his second son is his mirror copy; his body made to hammer metal into obedience and temper it into strength. He’s good at that, very good in fact. Steel sang for Gendry for most of his life – and it sings for Duncan too, even more beautifully. Girls from the whole town come over to watch him work and even Gendry is not as blind as not to see that the boy enjoys their attention.

He would be lying if he said it does not worry him, the thoughts of his own father and bastards swimming in his head until one day Duncan sets the hammer down and turns to him, blushing like a maiden.

‘’Dad.’’

‘’Hmm?’’

‘’Well. There is this girl- we, I mean, she… you know…‘’

_Ha. There is always a girl. _

‘’Are you going to marry her?’’

Duncan’s ears turn red.

‘’Yes.’’

Gendry stays quiet for a moment, before deciding that it certain things just don’t matter as much as he used to think they do.

Slowly, he eases his scowl into a smile.

‘’Congratulations, then.’’

Olllie… Ollie is a burden too heavy to bear.

(Arya screamed for hours, howled like a wolf with the limp body of their son clutched to her chest. No words, just raw ache of a wounded animal, not letting anyone come near. Alys hid in the cupboard, curled in a little ball with her hands pressed to her ears and crying in terror until Jory carried her away, hushing Duncan and Ben out.

Spring fever has a smell, sweet and disgusting. It always comes too late, when there is nothing that can be done anymore, clinging to hair and skin for weeks. No one can wash it off. In a way, Arya was right – death from plague never really scars. The wound that it leaves simply doesn’t ever close.

Ollie was so small, gasping for breath. He still had all his milk teeth, he still loved for Gendry to toss him up in the air, he still would ask Arya to tell him stories every evening and kiss his forehead goodnight.

So small.)

Sometimes he wonders – if they lived in a castle, maybe a maester could heal him, maybe he still would be alive. He wonders if Arya wonders about it too, but decides to keep silent.

They don’t talk about Ollie, none of them.

Alys runs away two moons before her five and tenth name day, surprising no one. Gendry guesses he got his wish; she is her mother’s daughter, truly. He watches, sad and resigned, as his wife tries and fails to hide her quiet glee as she reads him the letter Alys left. He just hears some phrases, here and there: mummer’s troupe, tightrope, adventure, being an acrobat and a boy, there _is always a fucking boy. _

And just like that, there is two of them again.

*

When they were younger, they used to be more desperate for each other, more hungry. Gendry supposes it makes sense - he was less sure of her then. Not in a way he doubted she loved him, he always knew she loved him, cared for him. It was more like he was living without ever exhaling, holding his breath and waiting until someone will take her away from him, because surely someone will?

Lady Arya, the Northern Princess on his lap, her eyes shut closed and mouth opened in pleasure, moaning his name and digging her nails in his shoulders.

It was just too good to be true.

He was so careful, not to get used to any of it. From his experience, Gods delight in taking things mortals take for granted. And his family already feels fragile enough; no matter how solid the walls are, they built them on quicksand. Everything is perishable and he can never forget that. But the older he gets, more and more of this burning anxiety disappears from his bones, evaporating in the thin early-morning mist outside when he wakes up in her warm arms and she smells like breast milk and dreams.

He still memorizes as much as he can though. Just in case one day memories would be the only thing he has left.

The identical shade of blue of his sons’ eyes. Alys’ breathy laughter. And Arya, Arya, Arya.

Years made her sweeter, softer. When they were freshly married, she used to order him around in bed, half-starved for his touch and half-ashamed for being so needy. They would go hard and fast, his fingers leaving bruises on her hips and her teeth leaving bite marks on his neck. He would be lying if he said he did not enjoy that, but now it’s even better. -now, when they make love, it’s slow and gentle, and everything they never thought they could be. She unravels underneath him, letting him pleasure her and worship her until she’s boneless and pliant, laughing breathlessly when his beard scratches her belly. She used to be slim and skinny, his wolf maiden, taut like a bowstring about to break, with lean muscles dancing underneath her pale skin. Now, there are traces of their children all over her body. They are written in the silver threads in her hair and in a blue spider web of veins on her breasts and faint marks on her belly where it stretched to accommodate growing babies, each of them.

It makes him stupid every time, looking at all those. Stupid and drunk on a feeling he does not even know how to describe.

Time flies and he can never get enough of her, of how it feels to be buried in her, of her hair in between his fingers and her nose bumping his and the way she bites on her lips when she peaks. The taste of her, the sight of her, the sound of her – she drives him mad and he sometimes wonders if he was put on this Earth just for this one purpose, to love this woman until he dies.

Because Gendry loves his lady Arya, like a fool and with all of him. This one thing never changes, even when they grow older and softer and weaker, and their hearts beat slower than they used to. Even when she is no longer dark-haired and he is no longer strong like an ox.

He can no longer carry her through the door, but he can still hold her hand as they watch the sunrise together. And maybe she does not water dance anymore, but, when she brushes her lips against his knuckles, this wicked gleam still burns in her eyes.

He loves her. The best he can. And as it seems to be enough for her - well, he trusts her enough to find solace in that. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! If you liked what you just read, I would truly appreciate receiving a comment. They make my days a little less bleak and help me forget about game of thrones finale, which is truly a noble cause.


End file.
